


Faded Glory

by Nicxan



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:34:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22484224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nicxan/pseuds/Nicxan
Summary: It hurt to not be remembered for the work he did.[Written for Angst/Fluff Week 2020.][Prompt was Forgotten Ghoul.]
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	Faded Glory

**Author's Note:**

> Another one written for [Angst/Fluff Week 2020](https://ghostbcfandomevents.tumblr.com/post/190451519061/angstfluff-week-schedule-more)!  
> This prompt was _Forgotten Ghoul_.
> 
> I love you Cowbell I'm so sorry.

Cowbell had a better job once.   
  
He had something more glamorous career-wise than ‘clean that window’, or ‘run this paperwork’, or even ‘do this laundry.’ It felt so ... _demeaning_. Of course, he could do nothing but obey, but he did so with a bitterness in his heart.   
  
Cowbell had been a band member once, too. Sure, maybe he didn’t have as big of a part as Omega or Alpha, but he had his part! He helped pull the music together! Why didn’t anyone care? Why did they chuckle when they heard his name, rather than nod with respect? They did it for other band members. What was he, a joke?   
  
_“Clean the guitars.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“Clean up Copia’s room.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“Prepare dinner for Imperator.”_   
  
It was like they didn’t care about his contributions at all; the clergy just treated him like another basic servant. Cowbell hated how people passed him by when he went about his day without a single care in the world or even a nod of recognition. Of course, they’d always make a beeline for Mist or Terra and gush at them.   
  
But, no, he didn’t matter, apparently.   
  
Sometimes Cowbell tried to bring up his brief period on tour with Papa Emeritus I. It usually didn’t work out in his favor; the person he was speaking with would either look at him oddly or they would just laugh. Though he only played the cowbell, he had been a band ghoul! He had been someone important! Normally, they laughed even harder after he said he was serious. Cowbell usually stormed off at that point.   
  
People liked him too, didn’t they? He poked around on an old, outdated computer now and again. He saw some fans talking about him once in a while. They drew him. They pointed out his spots during rituals. Hell, they even asked for him back once in a while.   
  
Why wouldn’t the clergy listen?   
  
Cowbell slammed the door to his quarters as usual. He had a weekly routine: Cowbell would flop on the bed, sniffle silently to himself, then look longingly at photos of his ‘glory days’. Normally he’d fumble for them on his night table, but apparently he had left them on the bed this time.   
  
He unfolded one of the pictures from the pile. It was worn, somewhat faded at the edges, and scratched, but ... it was _him_. On _tour_. It was proof of his worth, something that he worked hard on. Sure, he only played a cowbell, but it still added to the music, right?   
  
Cowbell’s hands shook as he looked on. Tears fell onto the fading photograph, but he couldn’t even bring himself to care. Whatever. This didn’t matter, right? Apparently not to anyone but him. Maybe Papa Emeritus I could appreciate him, but he had stepped down. Cowbell hadn’t seen him in almost a year.   
  
So who cared?   
  
Cowbell growled in a fit of anger, balled up the photo, and threw it into the trash can across the room. Sobbing into his pillow felt pathetic, but he couldn’t help it. It was either that, or cry in front of the next person who giggled at his name. He just didn’t understand.   
  
Why was he brushed off like he never existed in the first place?   
  
Why did they let him be forgotten?


End file.
